


Admit it - komahina

by jaydenmaeda



Category: Danganronpa
Genre: Ancient Greece, Feet, First Time Blow Jobs, Friends to Lovers, Hand Job, M/M, Mutual Pining, Philosophy, Virginity, add me on minecraft, foot
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-27
Updated: 2019-10-15
Packaged: 2019-11-06 10:58:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 10,804
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17938457
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jaydenmaeda/pseuds/jaydenmaeda
Summary: Komaeda didn't know what love was, but he knew how he felt for Hinata. Wasn't that enough?





	1. Rebirth

Nagito Komaeda was not quintessential, by any means.

 

Nor was he veritable.

  
Nor structured.

  
Nor balanced.

 

Solitary confinement wasn’t so bad- it wasn’t as though Nagito had any friends to spend time with, anyway. The only person he cared for had come to visit him, and for that, he was thankful.

 

Hinata-kun had graciously taken it upon himself to deliver food as Nagito cooed and swayed on the polished wooden floor, his wrists and feet bound with rope. He hadn’t forgotten the boys startled reaction throughout their first trial- but he didn’t blame himself. No, the truth of hope would have come to Hinata’s attention soon enough. But none of that changed the present. He could sense his wariness.

 

Hinata carried a wounded expression on his face- a meddlesome trait, and Nagito couldn’t tell if he was constipated, or terrified.

 

“.........Uh...I bought you some food. We didn’t want you to….Starve.” he gulped, his feet shuffling anxiously.

 

A burst of admiration rushed through Nagito in that moment. Hinata had chosen to replenish him, even though he was vermin! A macabre smile had crept onto his lips before he could stop himself. “You brought that for little ol’ me? Hinata-kun, you shouldn’t have! Will you feed it to me? You’ll have to get on your knees to reach me, Hinata-kun! I’m aaaaaall the way down here! On the floor! Hinata?”

 

Hinata’s eyes were soothing to watch (as he squirmed). Chestnut flecks lulled Nagito into their rich, dark depths and held him there, captive and absorbed and lost.

 

“S-shut up...Freak. You’re weirding me out.”

 

F...freak? Blood rushed into foreign regions, for reasons Nagito couldn’t explain. He mused for a delicious lifetime, soundlessly, into the rich silence after the storm, justifying his own morbid truth, for he was helpless in dictating his own emotions. He couldn’t deny his feelings for Hinata, even if they held no such justification. It was merely...Pure reverence. And an even purer love.

 

His thudding heart, his thudding heart.

 

Perspiration was volant to form upon his pale forehead. He felt hot all over, and his skin began to crawl, alive with the sensation of moths and grubs and beetles gnawing beneath the capricious surface. Oh, what a world. Nagito, his creamy hair tousled and damp, lay sprawled upon creaking floorboards like a slutty hostage. Yet he didn’t hold any oppositions in having his limbs bound, for he knew how to escape a few pieces of miserable rope.

 

And to the other students, he unequivocally deserved a punishment. Who was he to object to the wills of ultimates?

 

Hinata had been staring at him for a while now, wide eyed and visibly tense. Was his predicament too perverse for the ultimate to handle? Nagito absentmindedly wet his lips, excited at the prospect of seducing the boy he liked.

 

“Komaeda? I’m...I’ve been meaning to tell you something. I-”

 

Hinata was crudely whisked away before he could finish. Monomi and her antics were utterly, irrevocably infuriating. Nagito yearned to uncoil the fabric and string that held her lumpy body intact. He wanted to tear her eyes from their sickly cavities as though he was a feral dog, snarling, teeth bared and glistening with malignance. Poised to maul and lacerate her, as many times as he needed to.

 

Rip, burn, rip, burn, rip, burn, rip, burn.

 

Monokuma was the same. The sight of two inanimate objects, endowed with the idiosyncrasy of sentience, despite lacking any purpose or value, (apart from second-rate comedy) angered Nagito in ways he couldn’t explain. And so, at every cue of their upbeat music, he was filled with an impotence of rage.

 

What did Hinata-kun want to tell him, anyway?

 

His stomach growled. Ribs bulged through the dirty fabric of his t-shirt. Shifting over in the slightest granted him a waft of his own body odour, which was sour and potent after three days of isolation. He disgusted himself more and more with each passing day.

 

Boredom had begun to stir within the boy, and so he thirsted for sensation.

 

A sound. A touch. A smell. Anything, anything to awaken his mortality once more. He tried gnawing on the wooden floorboards, but his teeth ached after a few minutes.

 

He even attempted to slither around like a worm, but he had no lubricant between his naked body and the wooden floor, and burns were quick to form upon his milky skin. Life was so new and breathtaking from the perspective of an insect. Nagito could hardly believe his luck! There really were perks in being an irredeemable, sickly wedge of toxic waste. As enlightening as it was- he knew he could never truly live as a worm. He would never produce mucus, and he would never have a digestive system capable of converting dirt into energy. Life was full of disappointments.

 

So, if not wormplay, what was a boy to do for fun around here? Maintain homeostasis? Nagito scoffed.

 

By that point, he had removed the rope from his slender wrists. Soothingly grazing the indents of his ribs with a subdued touch, his mind wandered to Hinata.

 

He supposed Hajime was handsome, in a rugged kind of way. Nagito enjoyed his body. Somewhat average, a seemingly adequate example of the male physique, and yet unique in its own way. The broad, husky shoulders and slender arms which were full and soft and yet firm, somehow. The way his pants hugged the prominent bulge of his crotch, which never failed to make Nagito ache with want. His hand slid further down still.

 

Sunlight dousing his caramel locks of hair. His harsh eyes alight with hope and splendor, always eager to entertain the masses. His sympathy. The soft touches and deep chuckles. His firm hands, and those lengthy fingers.

 

Nagito wondered how they would feel...Stroking in placid lengths. A thumb teasing the tip of his cock as he writhed and moaned. Fingers gripping his width firmly, milking precum from the length of his stiff cock. The faint trace of a curious tongue, probing, teasing. Touching ridges and stretches of skin that Nagito wasn't even aware he had. Shivers cascading down his spine until, tugging greedily, up and down, up and down, up and down...

 

He sighed, a bony hand still faltering above his erect shaft.

 

Semen had painted the umber floorboards, and oozed out still, caressing the ridges of his knuckles and the folds of his foreskin. It was morbid and perverse, but Nagito relished the sentiment with fervour.

...

 

….Nagito's stomach dropped.

 

The door was...

 

How long had Hajime been standing there?

  
(fanart lovingly crafted by my comrade @ johnegberts)


	2. Temptation

Komaeda shuddered. Three long, _hard_ days had passed following his little **‘incident.’** He had been released from captivity since, although he still remained under constant inspection by the other students, and his own awareness of these hungry eyes made it rather difficult to sleep. Worms of embarrassment wriggled inside of his stomach, their diminutive roots leisurely developing into a sumptuous tree. Recalling the experience made him feel nauseous: Hinata had gasped, mortified, at the sight of his sweaty masturbation fiasco. But that wasn’t the worst part, no. Hinata didn’t take the normal route of dashing off. Although it would have spared significant portions of second-hand embarrassment for both of them, _he just stood there_ , staring blankly at Komaeda’s throbbing cock, his cum still leaking out dejectedly. 

 

Too late, he realised, dwelling on the past wouldn’t help anyone. He needed to remain in the present. It was just as Job proclaimed (17:9) ‘The righteous keep going forwards, and those with clean hands become stronger and stronger.’ 

 

His mother was an avid fan of the Christian bible and even attempted to instil her profound convictions in her own son. Yet, in all his persistence, Nagito found himself incapable of embodying biblical rhetoric. If God existed, why did he overlook the morbid death of his parents? What kind of saviour would allow that? ‘Job,’ had he even _EXISTED_ , was probably a useless slut, with no neurological capacity for anything apart from massive bulging dicks in his over-stretched hole. Weak for lust, craving shame, shaking his wrinkled cheeks as an invitation for the seventh splat fest of the day. A voice in Nagito’s head whispered, _‘and you are the same as him,’_ but he pushed the thought away until his virgin hands began trembling more intensely. 

 

Heat flooded his cheeks once more, the embarrassment overflowing from his body in a muffled scream- into his pillow. **“WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH RRRRRRRRRRGEHEEEEEEEEEEEE RHUHRGHRGRURHRGHR!!@1!!!!”**

 

Amidst his squirming, he didn’t notice the footsteps beyond his cabin walls until it was too late. Three knocks. Crisp in precision, and yet, somehow hasty. “H-hey. It’s Hinata. The others asked me to check on you.” After a moments silence, he stuttered, “Not because I wanted to or anything! It was just my turn.” 

 

Despite being muffled, Nagito was competent in discerning that his voice was shaking. “You can come in if you like, Hinata-kun. Don’t worry, I have clothes on this time!” He jeered, feigning confidence. Beneath the thin layer of skin atop his chest, his heart pulsated. He swore he could pinpoint the erratic fluctuations in his muscle cells, had he been provided with an annotated diagram of the human heart. The pulses resonated within his throat. 

 

As the door began to creak, his breath fell shorter still. Sure enough, Hajime stood rigid in his doorway. He gulped. Sunlight flooded in, framing his youthful silhouette. Hinata’s gaze meandered to where Nagito lay, sprawled out lazily on his bedsheets. “Y-you should open a window in here…Or something. It stinks.” 

 

“Be my guest.” 

  
  
After loosening the window closest to the doorway, he hastily sat on the edge of the bed. Silence coagulated between their sweating, hormonal bodies. Nagito began shaking his left leg anxiously, hoping that the tension would resolve on its own. “...You know Hinata-kun, when we first met on the beach, I never anticipated _this_. But I suppose _this_ isn’t something you’d normally think about, right? How would I have ever known that you would walk in on me yanking one out, while having both my hands AND feet bound? Or that, rather than walking away, you would just stand there and watch. Tell me, did you enjoy seeing me humiliated? Did it make you happy to realise that I, your friend, am a meat sack of toxic waste? I'm practically festering away!”

 

“Y-you’re sick. Why would I even WANT to see that, you idiot?” He trembled, leaning back onto the bedsheets. At that point, their faces were mere centimetres apart; somehow, Nagito hovering above Hajime, their lungs filtering the same oxygen particles. “I don’t know,” he whispered, tilting his head slightly. He skulked closer still, yearning for his touch, his warmth, sweeping forwards elusively, his eyes scintillating with passion. Hinata’s embarrassed expression was quite cute. If he leaned forward a little more, their dicks would touch, albeit separated by fabric. It was like a game. As Komaeda was lulled into his sweet, innocent gaze, his heart melted. 

 

How cute he was! His parted lips, the warm flush dusting his cheeks, the rich pools of virescent light in his gaze, framed by tousled brown locks. How he ached to share his warmth. But the fact that he didn’t- despite the overwhelming urge for stimulus, the urge for friction, for Hinata’s stiff, hot cock against his own, it only made the arousal greater. Nagito ached with desire, but he could never force Hinata into something he didn’t want. So he pulled himself away, still hovering for a brief moment, before tapping his nose with a bony finger. “Haha, sorry Hinata-kun. I just thought I saw something on your face.” 

 

Nagito thought he glimpsed a fleck of disappointment in his expression as he pulled back, but he concluded that he was probably just in shock. They had been sitting together normally a few minutes prior, after all. As always, he regained his composure (as well as his usual nervous expression) and bolted upright. “O-oh. Did you get it off?”    
  


Nagito smirked, his eyes shifting down to the small bulge in Hajime’s jeans. “Get what off, exactly?” ...... _Silence._ He glared into Nagito's eyes with sincere annoyance. 

 

Flinching from the awkwardness, he breathed out, “I think it’s just an eyelash. Come over here and I can brush it off for you.” 

  
  
After what felt like hours of deliberation, Hajime finally sputtered out his answer.“Uh, no thanks. Considering you tried to murder someone a few days ago, I’d rather not give you the chance. I-I’m gonna go now.” 

 

Nagito pouted. “Don’t look at me like that, Hinata-kun. You know I would never hurt you. I only wanted the best for you- for all of you! When I see you all together, your greatness emanating, I can’t help but feel responsible for protecting you from harm. This world was framed for talent. It is, in my understanding, the only pathway to salvation. They had to die! I mean, you can’t honestly tell me that you miss them, right? Their presence was an offence to your…” 

 

…..Huh. Hajime must have left. 

 

Although it was upsetting to think that he had no interest in any of the things Nagito had to say, he wasn’t offended. No, it wasn’t as though he deserved to be listened to. Absentmindedly stroking his semi-hard erection, his mind drifted back to the look on Hajime’s face as he hovered above him. 

 

He wasn’t sure what he might do if he came back. 


	3. Yearning

  


Although Hajime had long since departed from his cabin, Nagito felt his presence lingering. Somewhat. In all honesty, he was shocked by the outcome of his visit. The fact that he mustered the courage to enter at all was astounding in itself. 

  


Despite his assistance in the murder of another student, Hajime had still persevered, ignoring his moral conflict, and paved his own royal road towards hope. 

  


And then there was...That. The overwhelmingly embarrassing interaction with Hajime that plagued his soul. In all of his efforts, Nagito found himself incapable of shoving the memory from his mind. 

\- - - - - - - - - - - - 

“T-the others told me to….” Hajime had paused, glancing down shyly at his own nervous hands, twitching and fumbling in discomfort. “Toletyouknowyoucanleavenow.” 

  


All Nagito could manage was a few pathetic splutters in response. “A-ah.. Hinata-k-kun…” Shuddering with anxiety, flushed with embarrassment, his limp cock still exposed for all to see. Fervent and panicked with thoughts bouncing around the unbearably expansive space between them, devastating the walls they touched. They were corroding. Falling apart.

\- - - - - - - - - - - -

  


His words were as brief as his entrance, and he was gone before Nagito could form a coherent string of thought. How could he have subjected an ultimate to something as impure and corrupt as that? He was scum. He was nothing.

  


He could feel his eyes glazing over as his head pounded with shame. Days had passed, and the glare of their interaction was still potent and dirty in Nagito’s mind. For hours he lay on those floorboards. Previously, he had yearned for his emancipation and awaited it eagerly. Now...Freedom meant nothing. It was an easy win, and an even easier loss. 

  


What, pray tell, would have happened, had Hinata walked in a mere fifteen minutes prior? As much as it vexed him, Nagito was capable of divulging that they would likely have come together in some crude notion of companionship. They would gossip and prate like schoolgirls, blissfully ignorant of their predicament on the island. Hinata would dissimulate his fear and uncertainty in favour of their relationship as friends. Probably. He hoped.

  


But that couldn’t happen, because Hinata surely resented him, or thought even less of him, if that were even remotely possible. 

  


What was  _ wrong _ with him? Nagito spared a moment to glance down at his own errant hands. His seed, dried and crusted over, served as a filthy remnant of mistakes. He almost, almost felt as anguished as he had on his first night- limbs bound, scrabbling at the floorboards and crying out as despairing nail-marks were gouged into the wood. 

  


Cold began seeping through the drafty windows, prompting Nagito to finally tuck his weeping dick and drooping balls back into their soft, checkered sanction. He yawned, shivering pathetically.

  


Oh how he yearned to be held. Not in a way that was inherently romantic. Not in a manner of concerned friendship. He just wanted to be clasped, whether it be in the palm of someone’s hand, or curled up in their lap. He craved the warmth which he had been deprived of, ever since his parents died. There was no warmth in solitude. There was no warmth in exile.

  


Yet here he was, confined on an island of deceit and devilry, surrounded by people and yet utterly alone. Tears prickled the soft creases of his eyes as he eased into slumber.

  


\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Komaeda?”   
  


Warmth grasped his shoulders firmly, yet tenderly. An intoxicating mist of concern wreathed around Nagito, earnestly so, prompting him to squirm slightly. 

  
“Komaeda, wake up.”

  


Amidst the waning darkness, blinking heavy sleep from his eyelids, Nagito could discern a shadow hovering above him. Still, despite the ominous black clouding his vision, he was able to identify the voice fondly. 

  


“J-jeez Hinata-kun, missing me already?” “IT’S NOT LIKE THAT!!!”

  


“I couldn’t sleep. So I left my room to get some fresh air, and saw your door was still open when I walked past your cabin.” He muttered, his voice laced with irritation. “So I went to close your door, since it was cold out. But I heard some weird noises from your room, like you were having a nightmare or something.”    
  
“And when I walked in, it looked like you were thrashing around in your sleep so I-” He paused mid-sentence, seemingly embarrassed of rambling. “But anyway, you seem alright now, so…” 

  


Even so, neither of them dared to move. The connection, albeit framed by exhaustion on both sides, was indescribably difficult to break. 

  


Still partly asleep, Nagito murmured something along the lines of “You should just stay here,” whilst lazily patting the other side of his bed. 

  


“What, so you can choke me in my sleep?” He scoffed, though he didn’t sound very convincing. 

  


“Don’t say that, Hinata-kun,” and then, hastily: “You saw me having that nightmare...It’s hard having my parents death on my conscience every day. I saw it happen, y’know. I was between my mum and dad when the plane crashed. The seats were quite small, so our knees were touching. Well, anyway, we were about 42,000 feet in the air when the pilot started shouting about an incoming meteor, never seen before, we’re all going to die- blah blah blah, meanwhile I was still in diapers having the best shit of my life. I remember the tired look of resignation on my father's face as the orchestra of screams rose to a crescendo. I never really cared about my dad, and I’m fairly certain he felt the same way about me. But my mother was crying while she stroked my hair and promised that I would be okay. Which I was, haha! In fact, I was the only person to survive among the 203 people onboard. Now, I know what you’re thinking: My luck saved me. Well, from a more logical standpoint, the cushioning of my parent's pathetically limp bodies sure did the trick. Who would die with like, 120 kilograms of extra protective flesh? Anyway, you know how I mentioned our knees were touching? Well, I was in a state of shock for around 9 hours and I didn’t move. I felt the warmth ebbing from their skin where our kneecaps were connected. My mother actually had what seemed like thousands of shards of metal embedded in her face, haha! It makes me upset to dream about, but I really can’t help it! Maybe if I had someone sleeping next to me, even for a moment, I wouldn’t feel this way. But it’s a lot to ask, isn’t it? Haha.”

  


“Okay, Jesus Christ. Well if you put it that way…” Hajime held his breath. “Move over.”

  


“But if you even LOOK at me the wrong way, I’m leaving.” He clambered awkwardly underneath the covers, struggling to face away from Nagito without touching him. But the bed was too small.   
  


Nagito yawned nonchalantly. “Why would I ever want to hurt you, Hinata-kun? Your existence propagates my favourite thing in the world: hope.”

  


And with that, he prayed to the **Penis God** of Dick and Balls that Hinata wouldn’t see or feel the growing bulge in his underwear. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> woah... guys... I think.... i think they might.... have s-/...sex.....in the next... chapter....Woah


	4. Satisfaction

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi lmfaoooo i am going to fail my chemistry exams xx

Though he tried, Nagito was incapable of falling asleep. His forehead was damp with perspiration, his brows furrowed and lips pursed. Stress had gradually permeated the complex structures of his mind. 

 

It was understandable, really. Having your individuality, free will and lifestyle torn from beneath your feet, only to be faced with a grossly unjust system of moral corruption was surely a universally difficult situation to come to terms with. 

 

On another note, he had also been fighting to contain the livid salacity upon sleeping in the same bed as Hajime, which threatened to spill over in an eclipse of compulsion and tenderness. How could he even attempt to control himself? His mere presence made Nagito tremble with joy!

 

Although the thought made him nauseous, he wondered if their souls were touching. Or perhaps they sustained an overlap of consciousness- something, anything to explain why he felt so drawn to the person lying beside him. Though they occupied different bodies, minds, hearts and compulsions, Nagito could not fathom how it was physically possible to feel this way about another living organism. 

 

Mankind was formed not within the benevolent hands of external intelligence. We were, for lack of better words, shaped by an altruistic force of the living world: nature. All of the conditions which collaborated in order to manufacture the quintessential conditions for human life, surely they had no influence in the illogical emotional suffering which Nagito felt compelled to experience, right? 

 

Why would they? Although he knew that the universe owed him nothing, including an explanation or reason for any of the historical phenomena within our solar system, Nagito was incapable of finding a satisfactory explanation for his feelings. 

 

_‘Oh Hajime,’_ he thought sourly, _‘Why do you play with my heart like this?’_

 

He, carelessly unaware, appeared to have drifted away into slumber rather effortlessly, his torso rising and falling in a steady, constant rhythm. For a few blissful moments, Nagito allowed himself to watch his face as he slept. 

 

In a way, the drastic curvature of his eyelashes mimicked that of the sails in Rembrandts’  _ Storm on the sea. _ He found it rather amusing, or perhaps it was mere irony, that Rembrandt was regarded as a timeless genius with a mind unknown even in the face of ‘God,’ and yet, here Nagito could depict that same timeless beauty which was impossible to replicate. The hue, golden and yet still shrouded in darkness somehow. Expressions marred by distance but, because of the eloquent strokes in all of the right places and the light framing each form strikingly enough, and yet subtle enough, ripe emotion churned within the stomach of his viewers- as if they were truly inside of his ocean. 

 

Nagito felt the familiar tugging of want within his mind- no, his soul. How he ached to reach out and caress that golden cheek, if only for a fleeting second. Hajime’s benign exhalations stirred the wispy hairs of his neck. The warmth emanating from his body had soaked into Nagito’s own skin, making him lethargic and sensitive to movement. 

 

An apprehensive sigh escaped his lips. Tendrils of lustful yearning had enraptured his frail shadow; the glossy shine of his troubled expression illuminated by the moonlight. Just as his eyelids were full, bursting and on the brink of collapsing, Nagito was jolted awake. 

 

Instantaneously, a series of erratic movements had stirred from the sleeping form beside him. 

 

Nagito mumbled incoherently as something hot, hard and fleshy pressed against his back. Back and forth, back and forth, back and forth. Hypnotising and rhythmic, Nagito felt himself curling back towards the benevolent arms of sleep. Well, he was, at least until his hips were pulled backwards in the clammy grasp of two steady hands.

 

Wide awake, startled and erect in certain regions, Nagito felt his body pushing back against Hajime’s stiff cock, which was now almost perfectly wedged between his ass cheeks. Its mere shape and thickness caused his mind to reel catastrophically, his own dick throbbing with each shallow, deliberate thrust. 

 

Though sleep still vaguely clouded his vision and mind, Nagito felt clear in his internal convictions: If he had been conscious, the chances of Hajime regarding him in a sexual or romantic light were close to none. He was just having a wet dream, Nagito knew that much.

And yet… His recognition of reality only caused the pleasure to increase astronomically. Being used for Hajime’s personal gratification as though he were a puppet, his strings attached to each individual digit of Hajime’s calloused hands and manipulated in order to fit in place, moaning and perfectly aligned to accommodate his girthy cock. 

 

He yearned to remove the barriers between them- namely his own underwear and Hajime’s boxers, but he knew he would feel guilty for stripping Hajime of his virginity. 

 

Nagito sighed with pleasure as the heat from his stiff dick brushed against his asshole, albeit through two layers of fabric. Gentle sighs had transgressed into violent grunts on Hajime’s end, and, soon after, his thrusts increased in intensity. 

 

Biting down on his own trembling hand as his body was thrust desperately into the cold linen, foreskin rubbing between the fabric of his underpants, Nagito felt his balls pulsing. Dismayed, he realised that the head was beginning to poke out, precum leaking out dejectedly amidst the chaos. Heat flushed his face in scathing, delicious waves.

 

He felt the familiar stiffening of his cock and the tensing of his nuts as Hajime’s impossibly solid dick burned against his asshole, leaving patches of wetness on his underwear. Nagito whined, his hips rolling back involuntarily. His mind somersaulted in a pointless cycle- eloquent structures of reason built only to collapse within mere seconds. 

 

For a precious moment, Nagito wondered what Hajime would feel like deep inside of his ass, the prominent ridges of his cock scraping his insides as he keened and whined desperately. The pleasure rolling in waves as he imagined himself screaming into his pillow, his ass plowed into like a fleshlight. As if on cue, the grip on his hips grew tighter, the thrusts becoming so deep that he could feel the round, fleshy imprint of Hajime’s ballsack as he pounded against his asshole.  

 

Nagito panted with effort, struggling to comprehend the sudden, abrupt burst of wetness which stained his ass- eyes squeezed shut as he busted his own load onto the clean linen. Tears pricked the creases of his eyes as he rode out his orgasm, nuts pulsing with effort.

................................. 

Huh. 

 

Still panting, Nagito stole a glance over at Hajime. He appeared to be sleeping. 

 

In disbelief at the fact that he came without touching himself, he exhaled gently. What had even happened? Was it just a dream? He did have trouble falling asleep after all, and he wouldn’t be surprised if Hajime wasn’t in his bed at all. Except, he was. Maybe Monokuma had some virus implanted in his room, capable of orchestrating a hyper-realistic hallucination? 

 

Or maybe not. Maybe Hinata had a wet dream, as all guys their age do, and went ballistic on the nearest object he could find in his sleep. It was highly plausible, even if Nagito wanted to shove the memory where it could never be accessed by another living soul. 

 

Following a brief period shame and embarrassment, Nagito allowed himself to be carried away by the sleep which encompassed his mind mercilessly, as thousands of hands tugged at his desperately frail body. 


	5. Hunger

Tenacious rays of sunlight kissed the skin of Nagito’s eyelids, prompting him to wake from his troubled slumber. Groaning slightly with the recollection of the night before, he spared a glance at the sleeping form beside him. 

 

Hajime’s expression radiated tranquillity. A faint blush had dusted his cheeks, and his lips were pursed sweetly. His hair, which was usually tidy, had digressed into wavy chestnut strands that wilted and curled against the warmth of his skin. 

 

The humid temperature was likely to blame for the thin layer of sweat which glistened on his forehead, and the sweat which had permeated Nagito’s own body. Or perhaps his nerves were to blame.

  
  
Conflicted suddenly by an array of troubling thoughts, Nagito wondered if he was morally inclined to inform Hajime of what had happened between them. After all, he had been unconscious. 

  
  
But he would probably just resent himself for it. Nagito knew the depth of Hajime’s own sense of justice which intertwined with morality, and he could imagine just how devastated he would be. 

  
  
Did he deserve to know?

  
  
Nagito mulled this over. Sure, he  _ deserved _ to know the movement of his own body; just like any other human. We, as organisms with free-will and a conscience,  _ deserved _ that much. 

 

But, considering each element of this particular occasion, he was faced with a conflicting dilemma: would someone  _ deserve _ to suffer from the excruciating pain of embarrassment and guilt, as opposed to remaining indifferent?

  
  
Nagito was almost positive that the latter was morally favourable. Yeah, he was a snake at heart, and he did enjoy the suffering of others… Thoroughly. But Hajime was different. 

 

He was talented, he wasn’t some fuck-up from a public school, otherwise, he wouldn’t have been placed on this island. With the knowledge of his talent sealed away, Nagito only felt more inclined to shelter him from the truth of this situation.    
  


 

He didn’t want to inflict unnecessary suffering on such a benevolent human being. And so he made the conscious decision to remain silent. 

  
…………..   
“K...Komae...da?” Small groans erupted from the pile of blankets beside him, his exhaustion articulated with a passionate yawn.

 

Hajime had stirred almost an hour after Nagito, and he was beyond thankful for having the time to mull over his thoughts. 

  
  
“Good morning, Hinata-kun!” He grinned, beaming at the boy beside him. “This bed is rather uncomfy if I do say so myself! That’s why I find it so strange that you sleep so effortlessly! All throughout the night I toss and turn, but last night in particular, I was awake more than usual. Yeah, your presence comforted me, but it also made me realise how dysfunctional my internal body mechanisms are, haha! I can’t even get enough sleep normally withou-”

  
  
“Yeah, yeah. It’s too early for this, man.” For a brief moment, his eyes widened, face pale with fright as he glanced down at his own pelvis. “H-hey did I… Did something…. Did I do anything weird last night?”   
  


Nagito swallowed nervously. “Umm, well, you did fart so violently that I felt my intestines rattling from the vibrations, but that was at like five in the morning so I didn’t care  _ that _ much.”

 

He seemed relieved but slightly agitated. Nagito shrugged, deciding that his alibi was believable enough, but more sugar-coating wouldn’t do much harm. 

 

“And your snoring does get pretty extreme, I’m not gonna lie. It was like listening to a broken record, haha! Drove me crazy. I felt like I was going to destroy all of my hair follicles, all for a moment of silence. But don’t worry about me, Hinata-kun! I’m just glad that you were able to get enough sleep. You need it! You’re a growing boy, after all.”

  
  
“Alright, alright. Message received. It’s just that I… Had a weird dream last night.”

  
  
Still laying beside one another, the two boys shared a lingering glance of resignation. It was like they were connected, in some fucked up way. 

 

Grey collided with olive, the hues vivacious and yet subdued all at once. He could sense the nervousness in Hajime’s gaze. In fact, he  _ knew _ that he could remember the events of the previous night, and somehow, that in itself was deeply concerning. 

  
  
But still, Nagito wouldn’t budge. “A d-dream? Wow, Hinata-kun, what happened? Was it scary? Did your dream-self book an appointment for a massage, only for the masseuse to think you’re a different patient, making you walk out of the clinic with a waxed and bleached asshole? No?”

 

When Hajime shook his head as if to say no, this didn’t happen at all and I hope you drop dead, Nagito began crafting his second thesis.

 

“Hmm, then what about this: you saw a pregnant woman, right? She had massive tits, in fact, they were so big that your jaw practically detached from your face and hit the ground. Hey, no, stay with me on this. Okay so her boobs were huge, right, and we can only assume she was lactating. So you got curious and decided to slice one of the tits off with a knife you found on the sidewalk. After impaling the flesh lump on a sharp stick, you chose to roast if over a crackling fire. Now, why did you do all of this, you wondered?”

 

After a brief pause to regulate his intake of oxygen, Nagito continued.

  
  
“But you knew why you did it. For years, no, for your entire existence, you had wondered if roasting a boob over the fire would boil the milk inside. Now, Hinata-kun, here is the most important question: did you find your answer?”

 

Breasts were weird and fun. Though Hajime was rather fun himself, Nagito knew that he would be even more perfect with a pair of tits. There wasn’t any way around that indisputable fact, and everyone knew it. Even God. 

 

“...I worry for you, Komaeda, you genuine sack of shit. I’m going to go get breakfast.”

  
  
As if on cue, Nagito felt the blood in his body rushing to his dick. He couldn’t help himself. Hajime, in his cute little boxers with one asscheek hanging out, and his cock bulging through the silken fabric- he was an accident waiting to happen.

  
God, how he ached to cause the fatal demise of this innocently slutty teenage boy. 

  
  
Maybe, just maybe, his talent would provide him with just enough luck to seduce Hajime. One day. 


	6. Lost

The dining hall wasn’t terrible. The food was diverse enough, and copious portions were served daily. It was too bad that everyone was too stressed to eat most of the time. 

 

Nagito yawned, his eyes stinging with exertion. Despite the overwhelming lassitude echoing in his limbs, he yearned for the company of Hajime. The dining hall was virtually empty, although Mikan was sitting alone precariously in the corner as she normally did. Blushing and leaning forwards so that her bare tits were almost entirely visible.

 

Boobs were very cash money indeed. The way they swelled drove him crazy, and he found it extremely difficult to contain himself if they ever started bouncing. Her nipples, a milky beige, peered out from behind her loosely buttoned blouse. 

 

Mikan on a bumpy road was a beautiful calamity waiting to happen. He lamented on this idea for a moment, salivating slightly. 

His dick twinged. Nagito was mostly into men, but he would never turn down the prospect of a quick tit-fuck, and, judging by the half-lidded gaze Mikan was granting him, she wouldn’t either.

 

But he hadn’t trudged to the dining hall to see her. He was there for Hajime.

 

The physical exhaustion added difficulty to his game of hide-and-seek, but after a few delayed seconds, Nagito found him sitting alone with a few pieces of stray toast. 

 

“Why hello there, Hinata-kun! Are you enjoying your breakfast?” 

 

“I was…” he muttered, sighing dejectedly.

  
  
“That’s nice. I think breakfast is disgusting.”

  
  
“Uh-huh.”   


  
“....” 

 

“Have you ever gotten high before, Hinata-kun?”

 

He spluttered, toast clinking onto the plate with alarming urgency. “What?!”

  
  
“High, you know. Blazed.”

  
  
“Like...Weed?” he blushed, face somewhat crestfallen. “I’ve never done anything like that.”

 

Nagito smirked. “Do you want to?”

\-------

 

When he woke up on the island, Nagito was fortunate enough to still have the ten-gram bag of kush in his jacket pocket, alongside at least a dozen xannies. How fortunate he was. At times he wondered if his luck was a mere gift from God- any God, it didn’t really matter. Yahweh. Allah. Jehovah. They were all the same, anyway.

 

When you weighed as much as three worms and five ounces of dirt, getting high was unfathomably rudimentary. One hit and he was gone, floating, staring into the abyss of all that was and all that would ever be. 

 

It was orgasmic.

 

Somehow, he had managed to control his urges over the past few days. It was rare for him. Although it was fucked up, and slightly cringe, there was something about Hajime that quelled his ability to be sober. 

 

He recalled their first meeting fondly.

 

The slender and yet, perfectly full volume of his silhouette against layers of golden fragments. Sand was mesmerising, really. Sure, the expansive depths of the sea were alluring to the soul, but, philosophically, they held as much value as oxygen. Those wine-dark crevices were a prison, a cataclysmic penitentiary with an infinite capacity for misconduct. 

 

Sand was so much more.

 

Indifferent to the flesh of your hand, those intricate structures of silicon dioxide, feldspar and mica; ebbing and flowing from the sinews of your fingertips, colliding microscopically with the weathered surface of foreign grains. It was inconsolable, really. Nagito despised being touched by strangers.

 

He could only imagine how utterly desecrated each piece of granular material would feel. If their atoms could weep, the earth would be covered in… Water.

 

Brackish, swelling, endless stretches of water. 

 

Hajime poked his arm harshly, plunging him back into the piercing depths of reality. “So are we doing this, or what?”

 

Nagito faltered somewhat. “Do you have a Coke can I can use? Or Pepsi? Mountain Dew?”

  
  
The fat ass brunette blinked, solidifying his confusion. “Uh, yeah. I think I have one in my room. Why?”

  
  
“I don’t have a bong, that’s why.”

 

\--

After trying his best to explain the mechanics of a homemade bong, Nagito placed a bud on the hole he had dented in the can, lighting it up and sucking the sweet, skunky strain into his lungs. 

 

Hajime was not as successful. 

 

Preluding at least fifteen constant minutes of unattractive spluttering, Hajime muttered something about feeling _ ‘good.’  _

 

Nagito flashed him an earnest smile, blinking fondly at the sight of Hajime’s hopelessly clouded eyes. 

 

“This island might seem fucked up to you, but I don’t care if I die, and I never have.” 

 

It was true, he really didn’t care. There was only so much a human being could take. 

 

Years of torment, regret and petulance had calcified between the fleshy lobes of his brain, cementing the incessant dissatisfaction which he so lamented. 

 

His eyes shifted to Hajime, who had been staring back listlessly. He was fucked. For a brief moment, Nagito thought he could see a flicker of desperation in those viridescent depths. 

 

“T-that’s just stupid. Things wouldn’t be the same if you died.” He spluttered gracelessly, still choking.

  
  
Nagito only rolled his eyes. “Look around you, Hinata-kun. We’re surrounded by faces. Surrounded by trees. By water. Do you think they care about where we are, what we’re doing and why we’re doing it? I can promise they don’t.”   


 

Hajime opened his mouth as if to respond, but the moment was short-lived. From an objective standpoint, Nagito knew he was ugly. It wasn’t just his face. His hip-bones jutted out awkwardly, framing the slender descent of his fucked-up limbs. 

 

“No one does. No one actually cares about you, including me. How could I?” He smirked, embracing the sweet, piquant high his body had been yearning for.

 

“That would be hypocritical of me- no, it would be dishonest. Because why would I love a fat sack of meat like you? All of that rice is spilling out, it looks terrible on you, oh God, you have love handles. That’s pretty disgusting. Tell me, do you care about me? Does your pathetic cock get hard when you think of me? Does your hole clench? I fucking despise you, do you know that?”   


  
“Every time we’re apart I think about all of the slutty things you could be doing with other people, I imagine it in detail: what your face looks like, sweat glistening on your brow, the diameter of your asshole contracting with every shallow thrust. I think about it until my heart clenches so tightly that I can’t breathe. ‘Til I feel like throwing up. Hey, how old were you when you realised everyone would be happier if you just killed yourself? And- hey… What’s that smell?”

 

“Yah,” Hajime breathed in response, eyes blooming in convoluted roots of pink. A smirk of blissful stupidity twitched on his lips.

 

Nagito felt his chest swell with rage. How dare he say something so offensive?

 

“Your prestigious complex is a lot more revealing than you think it is. I know you’re looking down on me, and laughing, laughing, over and over and over and over and over, wishing I would just throw my neck into a noose and stop breathing these cum-ridden oxygen cells already. You want to see my body decapitated and rotting. You say you care but you don’t. The truth is that you can’t stand me. In fact, you want to strangle me to death with your own hands. God, oh, God, what is wrong with our poor fucked up slave Hajime, having such vehement thoughts about his own master. Shame on you, piglet!”

 

“Tell me, Hajime, what’s the point... In living…? I don’t contribute anything to society. In fact, I’m such a stupid crazy whore bitch that I can’t control myself at times and run rampant in my neighbour's houses when they aren’t home. I like doing stuff like that because it makes me feel like I have some control.”

  
  
“Did I tell you about the time I was housesitting for a friend, and instead of feeding their cat, I ate the cat food myself? Not because I was hungry or anything. I just wanted that animal to suffer. A lot of people don’t believe that cats have souls, but if you saw the look on his face as I was shovelling the cat food into my butthole, with the wet, sloppy sounds echoing against the linoleum tiles, I’m sure anyone would change their mind. It was disgusting cat food, the cheapest can you can buy.”   


  
“Makes me think of my grandma's cat, though. I never talk to my grandma anymore. She moved out of town to get away from me, so I’m virtually alone with no adults to rely on. I don’t have any friends either. I’m so fucking upset, I don’t think you understand. No one does. I’m not sure if I know either, haha!”

  
  
“I wish my dad loved me, but he’s dead. I wish my mum would hold me, but she’s dead too. No one loves me, not even the stray dog I’ve been feeding. He pretends to care when I have food in my hands, but when I turn around, he’s always gone.”

 

“Haha, I just wished someone cared, you know?”

 

Cheeks flushed, Nagito spared a longing, pitiful glance at his companion. Hajime stared back eagerly.

 

  
“You’re kind of…” He trailed off, blinking with confusion.

  
  
“I’m what? Fucked up? Stupid? Ugly? Fat? Anorexic? Low self estem?” Nagito scoffed.

  
  
“I know, I’ve heard it all before. All of it. All of it. All of it. All of it. All of it. All of it. All of it. All of it. All of it. All of it. All of it. All of it. All of it. All of it. All of it. All of it. All of it. All of it. All of it. All of it. All of it.”

 

Maybe he had overestimated the strength of that particular strain. 

 

His body felt diseased and broken. Like it didn’t belong to him. Like he had no choice but to rip himself to pieces, lest he be devoured by the glittering teeth which shone from his ceiling. Mauled like a piece of prey; guiltless, submissive, unravelled for the world to see, reborn from the depressions and unsightly features of the skin on his body.

 

Carnivores were kind of sexy. 

 

His heart, though bleeding, swelled with lust at the prospect of Hajime consuming his flesh. Ravaging the musculus fibres of his body, sparing a satisfied glance as he luxuriously extracted his organs in sequential order. He wanted to watch his own body fall apart at the hands of Hajime, to feel the marrow being sucked from his bones and to embrace the erratic twitching of his bulging cock. 

 

Hajime swallowed, lifting his head up slightly. “I was going to say… I think you’re kind of hot.”

 

...What?

 

His heart thudded with anxiety. Surely he hadn’t heard him correctly, right?

 

After a pregnant and painful silence, Nagito glanced back shyly, following Hajime’s lidded gaze, which was directly in line with the dick-print bulging through his pants.

 

“Wait… You’re gay?”


	7. Broken

Hajime… Thought he was…. What?

 

Nagito spared himself the embarrassment of being incorrect, his head reeling as he struggled to expel the flush from his cheeks. He must have misheard. Hajime would never say anything like that, right? Because Nagito wasn’t hot. In fact, he was incredibly ugly, and this was common knowledge.

 

Unattractive, grotesque, vile, repugnant- Nagito had heard it all. Sure, it hurt, but he was grateful to have people in his life who cared enough to be honest with him. His mind wandered back to the condescending stares and the odious eyes that lingered slightly too long, the classmates who exclaimed upon the sight of his tangled locks, the nauseous voices that laughed at the hollow pigment of his skin, and the slutty bimbos that used their hair ties to dislocate his wrists (they were very fragile.) 

 

Such, it seemed, was merely fate.

 

If he had been born beautiful, with colour budding and swelling beneath his flesh, Nagito would be able to accept the words that flowed from Hajime’s chaste lips. But he wasn’t. At times like this, his mind flitted back to the dreadful comparisons between himself and an albino Michael Jackson.

 

“Komaeda?”

  
  
“I hate liars.” Nagito muttered, seething.

  
  
“W-what? Why would I-”

  
  
“Just admit it, Hinata-kun,” he purred, his eyes hot and wet and glistening with emotion, “You want me to suffer. You hate what I did to Togami, you think I’m the one to blame for his death. And, even though I wasn’t the one who wedged the knife in his flabby chest, you are right… To an extent. I cemented the fate of his death in our reality. I caused it. Without my intervention, he would still be alive right now. Hey, tell me, does that upset you? Do you hate me?”

 

Despite his vigorous head-shaking as if to say no, I don’t blame you, and I never would- Nagito couldn’t believe him. Yeah, they were both stoned as fuck, but he wasn’t stupid. He could tell when someone was lying. 

 

Much like Alexander the Great, Nagito was also destined for virtuosity. He truly believed that. It didn’t matter what it was, where it was, or even how he would do it. 

  
  
“Alexander the Great was a perplexing man,” Nagito mused, smiling faintly in Hajime’s direction. He wasn’t sure if he would be interested in such a topic, but he honestly didn’t care.

 

  
“The fact that our historical sources are so limited when it comes to actually envisioning the life he sustained throughout the duration of his campaign is just unfortunate. It really, truly is. Now, I know what you’re thinking:  _ ‘But EVERYONE knows how great Alexander is- there must be some basis for it, right?’ _ And you’re right, of course.”

  
  
“We have Diodorus Siculus, but he belongs to the Vulgate tradition, meaning he derives most of his historical context from mere rumours. He also refers to Cleitarchus, one of Alexander’s historians who is well-known for his over-embellishment and exaggeration. So, I mean, how much can we really trust the bibliotheca of Diodorus? Not much.”

  
  
“And then there’s Arrian of Nicomedia. Being of the official tradition, you would expect Arrian to be less biased, right? Wrong. All of his knowledge, which he applied to his ‘The Anabasis of Alexander,’ was collected from Aristobulus and Ptolemy (Alexander’s comrades.)”

  
  
“Now, Hinata-kun, you’re not dumb, just a little mentally challenged, so I’m sure you can tell me WHY extracting historical context from the mouths of Alexander’s friends would be problematic, right?” 

  
Blinking dejectedly, Hajime spluttered: “B-Because they’re more likely to say good things about him…?”

  
  
“And right you are, Hinata-kun! Many scholars and historians have widely accepted Arrian as pro-Alexander, and a hefty deliverer of propaganda, much like Plutarch, who is an even BIGGER bastard. Rather than focusing on historical accuracy, Plutarch actively strives to find moral virtues within the documentations of Alexander’s actions. For example, an event may have occurred, but not to the extent to which Plutarch describes it. He tends to portray Alexander in both negative and positive contexts pertaining to the human qualities he exhibits.”

 

Hinata nodded, his teeth listlessly taunting the flesh of his own lips. “Did Alexander… Have a wife?”

  
  
“I’m pretty sure he had three wives on different occasions, but he still had 356 concubines at his whim- you know, a different woman for every day of the year.”

  
  
“Did he have any… Male companions?”

  
  
Nagito swallowed. “I- I mean... Homosexuality was a very common custom in Ancient Greece. There is a lot of historical evidence to support Alexander’s practice in raw gay sex. I don’t think he was the one to take it up the ass, though- it would be hard to ride a horse into battle with a destroyed bumhole.”

 

Hajime had been staring back with a glazed look in his eyes, as though he was drinking up every word which escaped Nagito’s mouth. Mired, Nagito found himself staring back. 

 

“Have you… Ever….Thought about…. Being like Alexander?” The words seemed harsh on Hajime’s tongue. They were foreign, somehow.    
  
It may have been the cataclysmic high he was riding, but Nagito couldn’t understand what he was saying. “W-what do you mean, Hinata-kun?!”

 

“He married women, but…. Also had sex with other guys?”

 

Nagito felt his heart drop. The pulsations inside of his ears rammed onwards, violently, sending him into a tumult of lecherous despair. 

 

_ He knew. _

 

How long had he known?  _ How _ did he know? It wasn’t like Nagito was open about his sexual fantasies. Sure, he wanted to get railed, but he didn’t wear that desire on his sleeve like a personality trait. Was Hajime awake last night when he wedged his fat cock between the ass cheeks of yours truly? If not, then why else…

 

“I….” 

  
  
“It’s okay, Komaeda. I’m the same. L-Like don’t get me wrong, I’m straight! But… Lately… Around you… I…” He paused, his eyes still hopelessly clouded. 

 

Life was so unexpected. 

 

This, Nagito mused, was just one of those things that didn’t make any sense. It was hard enough to accept being an apex predator with no apparent prey- we humans have evolved somewhat degenerately. Love, though seemingly useless today, was an incredibly beneficial tool that led to the development of homo-sapiens. 

 

Establishing romantic and platonic relationships with other individuals allowed our species to survive more successfully, and ultimately increased our chances of reproductive success. That was all that mattered, after all: the propagation of our genes.

 

Hajime had been encapsulated by the mess before him and, for lack of better words, he would surely suffer from it. Nagito was broken. He didn’t emerge out of the womb correctly, for starters: his mother was a very small woman, and his legs were unbelievably long, even when he was a premature fetus. His entire existence was flawed. 

 

Eternal damnation, hellfire, stones hurled at his naked body in every direction, whipped against a yawning, squirming cage full of other faggots. If God’s kingdom truly thrived, those were the punishments which awaited him. Orchestrated within his loving, benevolent hands… Was eternal suffering. Suffering from which you could not learn to escape. A proposition in which God ‘creates’ you how he pleases, commands you to obey his laws, and punishes you for breaking them, even though his deliberate and well-strung process of creation willed you to act against his wishes. 

 

But hey, maybe humans were just incapable of understanding the mind of God. It wasn’t like Nagito was a viable specimen in the first place. It wasn’t his place to question the omnipotent orchestrator of the universe. He sickened himself, he really did. 

 

With his head still yawning to accommodate the dexterity of these thoughts, it was easy to forget the way his hands felt as they curled around Hajime’s wrists, and the sincere passion of their lips that moulded together, sweetly, like some kind of parting gesture. Still beneath him, Hajime melted into his kiss eagerly and keened with want each time a leg brushed the front of his jeans. 

 

Eyes closed, they embraced one another with more sincerity than Nagito had anticipated. His heart swelled, filling in the eerie space between them. His dick twinged with every lick and gasp, and the feeling of Hajime’s tousled hair intertwined with his fingers as he moaned absentmindedly into Nagito’s mouth. 

 

It was easy to forget the way he unzipped Hajime’s pants, and the way his tongue probed the moist fabric of his boxers before letting it all burn, corrode and crumble as he stripped him down, and salivated desperately at the sight of his twitching cock. Poised against his stomach, it was flushed and erect. The head glistened with saliva, framed deliciously by the beige folds of his foreskin. 

 

Gripping the base, Nagito licked in long, tedious lengths, smirking as Hajime whined with desire. They were both virgins, but Nagito could sense how close Hajime was to busting a fat one. It was actually kind of embarrassing. In mere seconds, Nagito felt his balls tighten, and he smiled against the hot, thin webs of cum that painted his face. 

 

“I didn’t even put the whole thing in my mouth.” Nagito muttered. 

 

But his words fell on deaf ears- Hajime was dead to the world, and he probably wouldn’t wake up for a very long time. Getting your first blow-job on the same night as losing your weed virginity was probably the best sleep remedy out there. 

 

Sighing, Nagito stood over the stoic frame of his sleeping form, dick clutched in hand. How did his life get like this?

 

Cock unsucked, asshole unfucked, starving, ravenous, crying, alone, no family, no friends, no money, no girlfriend, no minecraft and no motivation in life.

 

No matter how hard he yanked his cock, the pain wouldn’t subside. It was like a disease. And there was no cure. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yes i live vicariously through komaeda. yes im dumb as bricks. yes i have nothing keeping me alive a t this point apart from my incessant desire to pound alexander the great so hard that he cant walk. fucking deal with it. my vibe is rancid.
> 
> yall want more of this fic? comment down below and it might just happen xx


	8. Deliverance

Obese raindrops wrenched Nagito from his slumber, drenching his windows in ecstatic bursts. Stray vegetation thrashed in submission to dyspeptic winds. The weather was beyond miserable, but it had its perks. 

 

Nagito sighed, lamenting his own mortality at the sight of Mikan, her gorgeous tits bouncing free as she lost her footing, slipping over on the sodden walkway. Nip-slips weren't exactly life-changing, but they weren't mundane either. No, the hollow cavities and unrelenting aftershocks of his personal afflictions had left him numb and raw, to the extent that his body yawned to accommodate any source of external stimulus. That was all he wanted. 

 

He turned to face Hajime, who muttered something under his breath. The soft layer of flesh that dusted his cheeks was sheltered somewhat, framed by the crisp outline of his eyelashes. Twitching cutely as he stirred, Hajime was visibly exhausted despite his eight-hour sleep regime. 

 

The knowledge that Hajime was awake, and decided to neglect his ability of speech: was eminently offputting. Nagito squirmed, his skin beginning to rash slightly at his own discomfort. Silence between two fully conscious human beings wasn’t just unnatural- it was defective, and Nagito’s own physical nausea was proof of that. 

 

He swallowed, partially self-conscious, willing his mind to produce a worthwhile topic that he could elaborate on. 

 

“American Psycho wasn’t exactly a cinematic masterpiece- but it was something, I can say that much.”

 

Hajime grunted, wiggling his toes sleepily in response.    
  
“Mary Harron, the director, she was a feminist, right? Her entire motivation behind the film was the satirization of male vanity.”

 

Nagito pursed his lips, slightly offended at the lack of external interest in his musings.

 

“The delivery was perverse and striking and wrong- and that’s what made it all so captivating. Male viewers were offended, they were hurt, their credibilities were blatantly targeted, and, for once in their lives, they felt as though they were the punchline of some universally crude joke.”   
  


“The chiaroscuro lighting within the opening scene, utilized within a slow zoom to a closeup shot of Bateman’s face- that’s when we see the first inkling of inner conflict. He’s hollow, he really, truly is! He’s split down the middle, he’s fucked up, he’s undomesticated- his body refuses to comply with the standards orchestrated by Western Society.”

 

Sighing with fervour, Hajime rolled over to face him, his eyes still partially flushed. “How would you even know all of that… Just by watching a few seconds of an opening scene?!”

 

Nagito smirked. 

 

“Well, the technique of lighting is very central when it comes to constructing a powerful narrative. The chiaroscuro lighting in this particular scene illuminates one side of Bateman’s face so that it’s bathed in light, and the other- it’s shrouded in darkness, a manifestation of sinister levity.”

  
  
“Harron utilized this technique in order to convey the dual natures of Patrick Bateman. From the outside, looking in, everyone views him as a highly successful, charming and admirable young man. I mean, he’s hot as fuck for starters.  _ And _   he’s loaded. But, as the audience, we can all see his internal afflictions.  He’s a psychopath, he’s fucking crazy, and, in some sick, fucked up way, we’re all drawn to it!”

 

“We want the reassurance that a man of his stature and wealth is capable of feeling the same perverted emotions we feel. We want to see him burn because he’s better than we’ll ever be, we want to see him shatter, or corrode, it doesn’t matter- we just want him broken down until every part of him is so disgustingly human that we can have a reason to feel good about being poor. About being… Human.”

 

Shaking slightly with pleasure at his own revelations, he spared a glance at his companion. Hajime merely blinked sleepily.

 

“Had enough?”

  
  
Hajime sighed. “Why do you know so much about such weird things?”

  
  
“Because I’m useless, just like every other living thing on this planet.”

  
  
“...Now, put your meat hole to use, and suck my dick.”

  
  
“M-My what?!”

  
  
Nagito pouted, “I sucked yours last night. To be completely honest, I didn’t even feel like a human when you came all over me. I’m just a scrotum wipe, alone, covered in filth, and rotting on the inside.”

  
  
After a few moments of silent contemplation, Hajime whimpered. “F-fine! But if you watch me while I do it, I’ll stop!”

 

Gulping, he glanced down at the slightly pronounced tent in Nagito’s boxers. Despite yanking a fattie load out the night prior, his balls had filled right back up in a matter of hours, flushing his cock full of blood and demonstrating, yet again, the impressive structural components of the human body. 

 

Hands shaking- with uncertainty or excitement or a mixture of both, Nagito exhaled softly at the firm grasp of Hajime’s warm fingers against his cock. Though the sudden attention startled him, it only increased his arousal. 

 

It was noticeably out of character for Hajime to express his desires with such bold intensity, eyes hooded with unguarded longing as his hand glided, slicked with spit, across the length of his flaring dick. 

 

“N-now, American Psycho, as opposed to the popularized ‘Joker’ film that was released a couple weeks ago… It doesn’t even begin to compare- not on a symbolic level, or a cinematic level, and, in all honesty, the film itself is a perpetual work of art.”

 

Nagito groaned all of this out with a touch of insecurity. Hajime didn’t seem to be listening as he sucked hungrily at the flesh of Nagito’s uncircumcised, virgin dick, shuddering as it filled his mouth up to the base. His cock was hitting the back of Hajime’s throat, rubbing deliciously against the intricate, wet ridges.

 

Pleasure unfurled somewhere deep within his flesh, but his brain was reluctant to acknowledge this. He couldn’t help but feel somewhat whimsical. 

 

Life was a climacteric feature of planet Earth, but what would happen if everything ceased to exist? Nothing breathing, no-one spared, all of it, every last microbe and nanobe, decayed and utterly inanimate- what would happen?

  
  
Nagito could care less. 

 

After all, everything was so listlessly dismal. The brine waves of optimism merely washed over his face, in crescendo, never breaking, forever stagnant, relapsing and corroding like a prostitute with all of her holes blown out. 

 

Hajime hollowed his cheeks out, and the suction incited several hefty groans from Nagito’s quivering lips. His tongue teased the sensitive skin beneath the head of his flushed cock, tenderly, with the sincerity of a devoted housewife. Such warmth permeated the places where their flesh was connected, vivid, and drawn-out. 

 

Even still, he found himself physically incapable of justifying his emotions in a way that was unmotivated by biological necessity. 

 

Beneath the potent, blushing flesh, the crevices, nooks and crannies, and the bold curve of his uncircumcised penis- Nagito saw hope. One could even say it was beauty. He couldn’t help but wonder what existed inside- beneath the veins which bulged within his pulsating flesh, branching, crawling aimlessly like bolts of lightning framing an empty sky. 

 

And then, unwillingly, his senses were imbued with the question of ‘why.’ 

 

Why was Hajime on his knees, drooling and gagging on such a grotesque dick with the urgency of a malnourished Victorian boy? Why did he seem pleased at the sight of the stiff cock and balls that drooped leisurely, cupped with such tenderness in the callouses of his warm hands, as if he enjoyed their overwhelming aroma? 

 

Why was he alive?

  
  
Although it was his first time receiving head, Nagito couldn’t help but get a little depressed. 

 

It wasn’t like the experience was inherently terrible. In fact, Haijime’s mouth felt like heaven on earth. But heaven had gates, and, in this case, they were allegorically similar to Hajime’s teeth.

 

He wasn’t fussy. After all, anything was better than his own hand. 

 

Irrevocably turned on by the contractions of Hajime’s wet throat as he swallowed his cock to the base, Nagito shivered, throwing his head back against the skimpy pillows. Drooling profusely, Hajime swirled his tongue against the swelling head of his dick, pushing him to the edge.

 

Who cared about why any of this was happening? Who cared about the stupid fucking island, or Monokuma, or anyone else for that matter? Who gave a shit? It was all happening independently of Nagito’s own desires or personal wellbeing. It didn’t matter, in fact, nothing really did. 

 

His mind was cracking, his cock was leaking, his hands shaking in utter isolation, and his lips quivering with the weight of all the rancid things he wished he could say. Fate, it seemed, had no sympathy or understanding. No, the pendulum had swung too far, prompting him to consider what the fucking point was.

 

He didn’t care about surviving in the first place. There was no psychological, physical or philosophical reason for his existence to continue. Of every student on this island, he was the least valuable, the least liked, and the least worthy of redemption.

 

Shuddering, he grabbed fistfuls of Hajime’s chestnut hair, holding his head in place as he pumped his fat load into his throat. Despite the uncontrollable gagging, he swallowed everything obediently. 

 

Still panting, Nagito pushed Hajime’s head away and tucked his wet dick back into his boxers, muttering his thanks. The post-nut clarity only clouded his head more. 

 

Everything was terrible. Everything was futile. And, now that his seed had been dispersed, the biological purpose of his body had been fulfilled. 

 

He avoided Hajime’s eager glance, his soul utterly deprived of rapture. What was the fucking point.

 

The pain wasn’t going to stop. It probably never really would. And there was nothing anyone could do to change that. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i have mento illness


End file.
